Falling Apart
by BlackWolf888
Summary: A collection of snippets (that may or may not form a longer, coherent fic), revolving around a certain white-haired boy that tries to deal with loss and loneliness—and fails. Post-series. Angsty. Dark...ish. Tendershipping if you squint. Hard T for language and dark themes.
1. Not normal

**A/N:** A few words about "Falling Apart": it's a collection of snippets with size ranging from a few lines to small one-shots. I've got plenty of stuff already planned out, but I'm open to suggestions (in fact, I'd love to hear a few).

It's rated hard T because of dark themes and language (Ryou drops the occasional f-bomb, just so you know. I guess, after so many years, Bakura rubbed off on him).

Reviews are most welcome :)

* * *

.

Ryou Bakura wakes up, just like a normal boy. He turns off the alarm with a snort and sits up, white hair a mess and no Egyptian ring dangling from his neck. He walks to the mirror, stifling a yawn, and blinks at his reflection. His own brown eyes come into focus, staring back at him with some kind of anxious expectancy. After a while, his expression settles for something calmer - though, to the discerning eye, it would seem more like disappointment.

Ryou Bakura looks like a normal boy, but he is not. He has not even been close to the definition of 'normal' for years. He thinks that he is getting there, though. He was used to waking up and seeing the shadow of another person - another conscience - shifting in the brown depths of his eyes. That is gone now. It is gone, along with the Millennium Ring and that voice and that ever-burning rage. He looks in the mirror every day, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of it somewhere in his irises, but it's not there anymore. _He_ 's not there anymore. So that must mean he's getting back to normal.

And he hates it. He doesn't want to admit it, but he hates it.

His mornings are that of a normal boy. Walking to Domino High. Dozing off during math class. Eating with the others at the cafeteria - pretty standard things.

The rest of the day is never that of a normal boy. Returning to an empty apartment that he hasn't cleaned in a while. Writing letters to a long-dead sister. Storing said letters to a box. Alcohol for dinner.

He prefers vodka because it has no distinct flavor. It just burns down his throat in a semblance of feeling. Then he just sits and stares at his own shadow against the wall, the figure swimming before his drunk eyes almost as if it's moving on its own. Almost as if it's someone else. That's when the first trace of a real smile cracks on his face.

He raises a trembling hand to rummage at his hair. He looks back at his disheveled shadow and his smile broadens.

He stays there staring at it until he falls asleep, sprawled on the cold floor, half-empty glass dripping its contents on the tiles. He wakes up with a neck and a head that hurts, and with heavy eyelids that no longer conceal the stirring of another conscience.

He pops an aspirin and walks to Domino High. He dozes off during math class.

.


	2. Seeing ghosts

.

When he walks out in public he can't help but look around in small fits of panic, half-expecting to see _him_ strutting around a corner, fearing (hoping?) that he'll just run into _him_ like that. That - somehow - _he_ 'll be back.

 _He_ is never there, though. Ryou jumps every time he glimpses the swoosh of a black trench coat. He goes numb whenever a passer-by's nose, or eyes, or face looks suspiciously similar to his. He tenses every time he spots the light glinting on long white hair; his heart speeds up, and his breath comes out shallow, or doesn't come out at all, and his legs are always immobilized by dread and suddenly he feels alive, like his whole body jolts awake from whatever nightmare it was plunged into. And then he looks again, and that white hair never belongs to _him._ It's just some punk, or some old man, or just Ryou's reflection on a store window - _just you, stupid Ryou, just you -_ never _him._

He always sighs in relief, sweet sweet relief, yet somehow he also finds himself fighting back tears.

Thankfully, there are not that many out there with long white hair.

Thankfully.

.


	3. Run

.

When the nights become unbearable - when that void in him gapes like an abyss ready to swallow him whole - he goes out for a run.

(As if he can run away from it. As if it will make any difference.)

He runs until his lungs burn and his heart aches and he _almost_ collapses right in the middle of the dark park. He reaches that point when he feels his body can take no more and then he pushes himself harder. Feet, calves, knees, thighs, heart and lungs all protest, but he runs faster.

He doesn't know why he has to push himself like that. He hated it whenever the spirit did this. And yet he runs harder, faster, more than is healthy for him, more than he should, and he revels in the pain of his body.

It somehow dulls that other pain in him; it somehow feels like company.

.


	4. Herbs at midnight

.

"Hello, landlord".

He jolts awake with a small cry in the darkness of the empty room. He looks around bewildered and lost, expecting to see a pair of identical brown eyes stare back at him, or a face with a smile that looks like a snarl, or anything besides his own discarded clothes and empty walls. Slowly - too slowly and painfully - reality registers.

 _A dream_ , he tells himself, just like every night. One of those extremely vivid, realistic dreams his subconscious graces him with.

He gets up and stumbles to the kitchen to put the kettle on. That face - _oh God, his face_ \- is still too alive in his head to allow him to go back to sleep. He brews some of his supposedly soothing herbs and turns on the tv, trying to muffle the voice that still echoes in his ears.

 _Landlord._

He keeps hearing that voice until dawn breaks.

.


	5. Friends

.

Friends. Such a nice word. So warm. A small sound, a jumble of letters that represents such a treasured and coveted thing.

Ryou is not sure if he really has any friends. Sure, there is Jounouchi and Anzu and Honda and, above all, there is Yuugi, but he is not certain that they are his friends.

They are friends with the Ryou that that smiles politely and laughs at every joke. The Ryou that drinks tea and blushes in such a shy and cute way. The Ryou that tags along with no complaints, ever, just with a satisfied smile in finding himself liked and in the company of others (real others, with blood and flesh and bones).

The problem is, he is not that Ryou anymore.

He is the Ryou that can't sleep at nights and can't wake up in the mornings. He is the Ryou that slumps against the door when he returns to his empty apartment, the Ryou that feels like choking every minute of every hour of every damn day. He is the Ryou that can't stand being around others anymore, because he is sick of hearing himself say that he is fine, sick of smiling, sick, just sick; sick for feeling so alone, for missing _him_ , sick for finding _him_ more real than he ever found the people of actual flesh and bones.

He is still that other Ryou on the outside, when he has to. But he is detached from that version of himself. He watches himself laugh and joke. Watches like he is not really controlling it, just the way he used to for so long ( _so fucking long_ ). Did he grow so used to it that he can't live without it anymore? Without some form of detachment, of isolation, of shield after shield after shield to protect himself?

He doesn't know, but there's not much he can do about it. So he watches that other Ryou interact with those clueless people he calls 'friends', while he (the real Ryou) slumps against the door of his soul room and chokes on loneliness for every minute of every hour of every damn day.

.


	6. A year later

.

It's been over a year. A year, five months and one week, to be exact. That's what Ryou keeps telling himself: it's been over a year. He should have gotten over it by now. Gotten over _him._

But he hasn't. He goes around smiling and saying that he's ok like it's a reflex, but he hasn't. And he really is not ok.

He doesn't know why he feels like this. He shouldn't miss him... Should he? He hated him and feared him (didn't he?) and always wished that he would just leave him alone. So then why, _whywhywhywhy_ -

.


	7. Stripes, rain and caffeine

.

Most of the mornings he feels like he hasn't even woken up. He gets in the subway like a sleepwalker, walks past people that don't really feel like they're real and, by the time he reaches his work, he doesn't even feel like himself anymore.

He hates his job. He works in an office, as an errand boy. It's just a temporary day job to earn some money for college, but he hates it nonetheless. He never pictured himself in an office; not in something so boring and mundane. Such normality is hard to swallow after what he lived - no, after what he had to _go through_ \- with the spirit of the Ring.

He can still remember some of these nights, the ones when he was not in control. He remembers them the way one does when one sits in the back seat of a car as someone else drives. He remembers _him_ (them) prowling through the city like they owned every road and street and alley, remembers how they (together) jumped from roof to roof, trespassing private property without giving it so much as a thought, how _he_ sounded when he laughed, all confidence and feral eyes and striped shirt soaked by the cold rain...

"Hey, Ryou! Are you still in there?"

His co-workers have made bringing him back to present something of a habit. They say, half-teasing him and half-complaining, that he always seems like he's not there, like he's standing with one foot in a totally different world. Ryou listens and looks at them without paying attention; but he laughs along with them just to not look weird, or to look polite, or to be a part of the group, or simply because he is so fucking pathetic that all he can do is laugh at himself. So he laughs along. Hating that job. Hating this world as well as that other one, the one he's standing with one foot in to: the world of dark alleys and wild nights and striped shirts in the rain.

The laughter always dies in his throat as if it never existed, leaving no trace of joy behind.

He looks at the cup of coffee in his hands. Black. Plain. Bitter. A strange link to this reality. A forced awakening of body and senses just long enough to get in the subway, go to work, smile and pretend everything is fine.

He downs a few gulps to wash away the remnants of fake laughter from his throat, feeling more than ever like a coward.

Perhaps an office job is the only thing that suits him, after all. Boring and mundane and normal, so heartbreakingly _normal_ , just like Ryou. No more alleys. No more darkness. No more nothing. Just plain old reality.

He keeps smiling and downs enough coffee to keep him going until quitting time.

.


	8. Tempo

.

Ryou runs again. He runs and he closes his eyes tight, his feet in time with his heart and his thoughts: _be back, be back, be back, be back, be back..._

He opens his eyes, but _he_ is not back.

He keeps running.

.


	9. Time is the worst healer

.

He can't let them see. Can't let them see what the spirit has done to him by leaving - which, somehow, is even worse than what he was doing to him when he was there. Can't let them see that, no. _He_ was a tyrant. A criminal. A madman drunk in his desire for revenge. Missing him is no healthy sign. Not something acceptable. Not logical, and certainly not something expected from nice boys like Ryou.

But the spirit was more than that. Ryou knows, but he can't let others know. That knowledge is all he has left. He can't let others take that from him and taint it with their concern and their logic and their stupid psychological terms and things like _'you're so much better off without him'_ and _'you look better, Bakura-kun'_ and that wretched _'time_ _heals all wounds'._

Time heals all wounds. He has lost count of how many times he has heard that. There was a time when he believed it, too, back when he hadn't really known what it was like to have such wounds - what it was like to have so many of them.

Everybody else still looked like they believed it, though. Everybody kept repeating it like a mantra. Everybody, except a few old lyrics in a song he can no longer listen to.

(it rings too much like truth)

.


	10. Letter

.

He hasn't written a letter to Amane in such a long time. He doesn't know what to write about any more; he has become incredibly repetitive in his efforts to appear happy and content and just the way a big brother should be.

Writing to her no longer appeals to him. Even so, he finds himself sitting on his desk, pen in hand, hovering over a blank page.

This had once helped him to cope with her absence. There were periods of time when he used to write a letter every day; hundreds of letters that she would never read but still felt like talking to her.

'Dear Amane', he scribbles in the top corner, then hesitates.

Those letters have ever been his own, peculiar form of confession. But, if he is to be truthful to himself, what he needs to say is not something that a brother says to his little sister. Hell, she isn't even the person he needs to say them to.

He scratches off the salutation and then hesitates again, listening to his madly beating heart. Finally, he decides to omit the 'dear' and starts off by simply writing: 'Spirit,'

He skips a line and starts writing frantically.

.


	11. Marik

.

At some point, there is Marik. A some point, they start talking a bit more than they used to. Ryou gets the feeling that Marik understands - truly understands, in a way no one else does, not even Yuugi. Of course Yuugi's situation was similar but, at the same time, it was so different. Yes, they had both hosted ancient Egyptian spirits (of all things), shared bodies and souls and lives with them, but the Pharaoh was nothing like the spirit of the Ring. When the Pharaoh left, he made sure Yuugi was ready, a man of his own, every inch his equal. Sure, Yuugi misses the Pharaoh - Ryou knows that much - but he can stand on his own legs.

When the spirit disappeared, he left Ryou broken. Uncertain. Alone (again).

Marik's case was also similar (and different) but he gets it a little bit more. And he manages to approach Ryou a little bit more than others. And Ryou lets him, all hopeful and content and happy (so stupidly happy) that someone is finally there, that someone sees him for what he is, and knows, and is still there despite - or because - of all that. At some point, Ryou doesn't even feel so alone anymore.

Until they both crumble under the weight of their darkness - that kind of darkness that did not leave along with their Yamis.

At some point, Marik stops answering Ryou's calls. At some point, Ryou stops trying.

.


	12. Ashtrays

.

Ryou never smoked, but he knew the spirit did. The boy used to seize back control of his body to find tens of cigarette butts scattered around his apartment. After a while he had bought a few ashtrays; he could have no control over what the spirit did with his lungs, but at least he could try to keep his apartment somewhat cleaner.

Beyond all expectations, the spirit actually used those ashtrays. Ryou kept waking up with his throat grazing and disgustingly fuzzy, but at least he encountered no more stubs in his fridge.

He still keeps those ashtrays around, even though they have been empty for more than a year.

.


	13. Hate

_Author's note: For this chapter (and this chapter alone), I'm changing to first person POV. I wanted to have Ryou speak directly to Bakura. Now... As for how exactly this is happening, I leave it up to you. He could be writing a letter; he could be talking to his reflection in the mirror; he could be playing this out in his head; he could be shouting it to a dark sky; or nothing of the aforementioned.  
Whatever sits best with you. (and I'd love to hear your take)  
_

 _._

 _._

 _._

Well, then, let me count.

Cruel.

Arrogant.

Obnoxious.

Pretentious - oh yes, what a fine hypocrite you were. Lies flooded out of your mouth as naturally as breathing. You could be charming when you wanted to. You could hide the coldness and the brutality and _you_ , the whole you, you could just hide it and make it appear as if you were somebody else. It amazes me sometimes, how one can live like that.

So yes: cruel, arrogant, obnoxious, pretentious. Egocentric. You had your little plans and you just _had to_ achieve them. You had to go through with them, do what _you_ wanted, you, no matter who might get in the middle, who might get stomped, crashed, burned, hurt beyond recognition. No matter who you might drag down with you. No, not as long as you got what you wanted, right?

I hate you.

I hate you.

How many more shades can I paint this _I hate you_ with?

Sometimes I think I can win by being better than you. By being everything you never could. Be the bigger man, the better man, the I-will-rub-it-in-your-face-and-prove-it-to-you kind of man. I really want to, sometimes, just to prove to myself that I'm not like you, that you're better off whenever the hell you are and that now I can finally go on and make this right.

Yet I look around and I see them, people with sad faces, or angry ones, or cruel and arrogant and obnoxious and pretentious and egocentric like you had been. I look at them and I feel nothing. That's not how it was.

That's not at all who I was.

There's this old lady next to me at the bus stop. She's swaying under the weight of the bags she's carrying. She looks so sad and lonely and desperate. She whines loudly about how she's gonna be late and how she has no money for a cab.

And I feel nothing. The old me would have rushed to help her, carry the bags, offer a smile, offer to share a cab. The current me is not swayed by her pleading eyes. The current me feels nothing. I can't bring myself to care about any of them. I feel that I've wasted my share of caring by caring too much and worrying too much. So now I'm just left like this. Fed up. Hollow.

So there I am, not being the bigger person. Not being better. There I am, being every bit the weak little shit you thought I was. Being every bit your pathetic other half. And I hate myself as much as I hate you.

The worst part is, it didn't have to be like this. It didn't have to come to this.

You were too caught up in your schemes and plans and yourself to realize how petty all of this was. If you had let me, I could have shown you another way. I know I could. We could have been happy. We could have, if you had given me the chance, but you didn't. You left, leaving me with no chances and half a soul I don't know what to do with. You left, taking away all the possibilities without even letting me try.

You left.

And I hate you for it.

.


	14. In a bar

.

One night he wraps himself in that black trench coat the _other him_ liked to wear and goes out. He doesn't know why; he doesn't know what the hell he's thinking. He's probably not thinking at all.

He walks down dark alleys he vaguely remembers. He hears a distant rumble and fervently wishes for rain - oh, _please_ , make it rain. He lets his legs lead him rather than his mind.

His subconscious leads him to the worn-out door of some bar. He takes a deep breath and walks in. Smell of old wood, cigarette smoke and alcohol. A grumpy, massive barman eyes him and greets him with a curt nod. Ryou notices many furtive, frightful glances directed to his person.

He slides in an empty booth and waits; the barman brings him a glass of something before he has to ask. He takes a sip and can't hold back a smile: vodka. Flavorless. Burning. He smiles and feels a sting hit his eyes along with the sting in his throat.

He can't even tell how much he drinks. The next morning he wakes up cold and aching in the corner of a street he does not recognize. Just like old times. Just like when _he_ was there.

He goes back to the bar the following night.

.


	15. Cigarette

.

He relies on muscle memory to roll a cigarette.

The first time is a complete failure, but the second time he almost gets it right.

.


	16. Lies

.

"You've got to stop this, Bakura".

Yuugi's violet eyes overflow with concern. Ryou looks at his reflection on the glass window of the diner where they are sitting. He has bags under his eyes and his skin is broken in several places. Blood has crusted over wounds on his knuckles. He is thin - thinner than he's been in a long while. He really looks like a mess (looks like _him_ ). Except for the eyes. The eyes are passive. Dead.

Ryou attempts a feeble smile. "Don't worry, Yuugi. I am alright".

The smile crumbles along with his lie.

"I know how you feel, Bakura", Yuugi whispers. "I miss Atem a lot, too".

"I don't miss the spirit!" Ryou hisses; he doesn't notice, but his voice sounds a lot like his other self's. "He was cruel, and harsh, and-"

He stops talking under the look Yuugi gives him. He sighs and suddenly feels so old and tired.

"I don't know what's going on anymore, Yuugi".

.


	17. Fight

.

He slips out in the small hours of a cold winter night, not able to bear the silence of his apartment anymore.

He crosses empty, half-lit streets, his hand clutching the spot on his chest where the Millennium ring used to rest. His fingers only cradle the folds of his shirt (striped, white and blue, his favorite), but the gesture brings him some odd ghost of comfort. He doesn't pay attention to where he's going. He simply walks and wishes for rain.

He ends up getting into a fist-fight, without really knowing how. Something about him talking back to a bunch of guys twice his size (talking back? Ryou? Really?), something about landing the first blow when they got too rude or too close (or both, or neither). The details are a blur, because his focus is on that empty spot on his chest and on the clouds that thicken overhead.

One way or another, he ends up on the gritty ground of a back alley, earning kicks in his ribs and punches in the gut. He takes it without a grunt for as long as it lasts. Then he climbs back to his feet, despite the threats, and staggers as he tries to draw himself to his full height.

Burning pain in his ribs tries to keep him doubled over, but he dismisses it with a scoff. That's not enough to keep him down. They are not enough. He has been through worse. He's had his fucking hand impaled, for god's sake. He has permanent scars on his chest from the many times the Ring literally crawled under his skin. He's managed to withstand sharing his body with another soul for years - with the other him, with him, _him_ (be back, be back, be back) - and all that it entails.

So yeah, after that, a punch in the ribs is nothing.

A droplet of rain splashes on his nose just as he manages to straighten himself. It's cold and smells of winter and catches him by surprise. He looks up to the sky, to the clouds that look red as they hang low over the city, and a few more raindrops fall on his face. Before he has time to blink twice, it is raining heavily.

Ryou keeps looking at the sky, ignoring the guy that pushes him, and feels the grin that tugs at his mouth. He savors the smile slowly and finds that it tastes a bit like irony. He is smiling at the taunting familiarity: he is bruised and beaten in some unknown alley, soaked to the bone. In his mouth mingle the taste of rain and his own blood.

He can't stop the laugh that rises through his throat.

He throws his head back and laughs loudly, uncontrollably, completely unhinged because this is _too precious._

And then Ryou thinks he might as well go all the way down memory lane and throws himself on one of the thugs. He punches and scratches and even finds himself biting - he remembers the Thief doing that - and there's more blood in his mouth and he keeps laughing - _oh, gods, this is too fucking precious_ \- and laughing and punching and laughing. And then one of the thugs is down and the other is running away with an adorable terrified look on his face and, oh, the spirit would've had a field day!

He leans with his back against the wet wall, laughing it all out as the rain washes the red away from his white hair.

.


	18. Not yet

.

Ryou has friends. He has nothing else (he doesn't even have a family anymore), but he still has friends.

He doesn't know why they haven't given up on him already. He knows he doesn't deserve them, just the way he no longer deserved the last living remnant of his family: his father.

He has nothing else, but he still has friends and, for the life of him, he can't tell why. He almost wishes they'd give up on him too, and then leave him with truly nothing. That way, he'd have nothing to hold him there. No reason to keep going.

But he has them, so he keeps trying to hold on, day in and day out. He can't give up just yet - not when they try so hard to keep him tethered.

The others, more or less, have managed to stand on their own feet. Even Marik, who went through some pretty tough times himself, has found his path. Ryou hasn't, but the others insist that he will eventually. They managed to climb to their feet and, since they did it, Ryou can do it too, can't he? He is not allowed to give up yet.

And he doesn't want to. Doesn't want to show them how weak he really is. Doesn't want to fail them the way he has failed everybody else.

So he meets them for Duel Monsters and tabletop RPGs, and smiles at them, and when they tell them that things will get better, he thanks them for their concern. He tries to show them that he's still strong enough, that he's still got some level of control. He tries to ward off Marik's knowing glances with feigned nonchalance.

Because he's not allowed to give up just yet.

But that doesn't stop him from insisting to walk home alone after they part ways. Doesn't stop him from choosing the darkest possible alleys, or stalling in places he knows he should not linger.

He makes detours on purpose, just to cross alleys with bad reputation. He walks slowly, with head hanging and shoulders hunched, hoping to make himself a target. He glances at the shadows, hoping to see them move maliciously, wishing for the glint of a knife. His skin crawls in relish as he thinks of the possible pain. He knows that, if he is attacked, he won't fight back - and he smiles at the thought.

Because he's not allowed to give up, but no one will blame him if they find him stabbed in an alley, right? No one will blame the poor, weak, unarmed boy that crossed the path of a mugger or a desperate drug addict. These things do happen. Bad luck and stuff. No one will blame him. No one will suspect. He won't have failed anyone.

So he keeps crossing dark alleys, ready to open his arms and embrace the first chance of pain - or oblivion.

But nothing happens.

He reaches the door of his apartment building and still nothing has happened. He keeps hoping until he turns the key in the lock. Eventually, he sighs in disappointment and goes inside. He kicks his shoes off and goes to sleep, and nothing has happened yet.

Perhaps next time.

Perhaps next time.

.


	19. Passenger

.

Ryou is on a train, sitting by the window, holding a paper cup with steaming, black coffee. He has not eaten in one-and-a-half days. He doesn't really feel like eating. For now, the black miracle between his hands is enough to keep him going.

He has boarded the train, but he is not headed anywhere in particular. He does that, every so often. He buys a ticket and boards a train for a few hours.

He watches the world moving outside his window. He does not exist when he's on the train. He sees the world, but he's not part of it. He's moving through it, without touching it. Nothing really matters. He's just another passenger, suspended in the non-reality between two destinations. Time is on hold. It's relieving - it helps him think. It helps him collect himself. This is as close to meditating as he's ever reached.

The bitter taste of badly-brewed coffee hits the back of his tongue. Comforting. Familiar. This is a part of the real world he likes keeping with him while on this aimless limbo.

He drinks, and watches, and wonders... Could he stay like this, in limbo, away from the world, forever? If he just drifted away, would everything keep being broken?

He disembarks when they reach the Domino train station and crumbles his paper cup before throwing it in the trash.

.


	20. Indifference

_Warning: Drug use._

.

.

He sees lips moving in front of him. Pale coral on a bronze canvas. _Marik._

The voice reaches him as if through a fuzzy, fuzzy maze of cotton.

"Holy shit, Ryou... That money was for food".

Ryou's head is heavy and swimming and the movement of Marik's lips is not in sync with the sound of his voice. Still, Ryou blinks and smiles.

Everything feels too unreal - like a dream. And dreams do not matter. Good or bad, they are not real, and you can't get sad or mad or stress over a dream.

"Get a grip, Ryou, or you'll do some serious harm to yourself".

Ryou's smile fades from his lips. He manages to get enough of a grip to give an honest, if somewhat slurred, answer.

"I don't care".

.


	21. Lightness

.

There's a knock on his door. Ryou groans and drags himself from the couch to answer it.

He opens the door and is hit with a barrage of familiar features. And he knows. He knows before even anything registers properly who it is that stands on his threshold.

If there was any breath in him at all, it freezes up, breaks apart and scatters.

A pair of red eyes meets his own and Ryou realizes something is different. The edges that should be rough are somewhat softer. There is no half-lidded glare. No sharp eyebrows looming low between the eyes.

Ryou's heart beats fast. So fast it hurts.

He manages to breathe out a few words.

"What are you doing here?"

The other man sighs. He replies quietly—and that in itself is so uncharacteristic.

"I came here to find you."

Ryou's mind is a muddle of hows and whys, and yet some kind of insane hope explodes in him like a burst of a million colors. His heart swells, becomes almost too much for his chest. The rest of him goes numb. There's anticipation in his pulse, and fear in his gut, and he speaks with half a breath.

"What do you want from me?"

The other stares at him. His brows scrunch up. A line appears between them and crumples his forehead right in the middle. Ryou has never seen that line on that face before.

The red gaze lowers.

"I... came to say I'm sorry."

Ryou feels like his limbs are dissolving one inch at a time. His mind struggles to ignore his heart and whispers, hisses, roars, _this can't be. It can't. It's not true._

The other steals and upwards glance and there is remorse in the shape of his eyes. A silent plea. A tender uncertainty.

Ryou looks into those eyes and feels like he's going to die.

 _It's real,_ he thinks.

 _He means it._

Heat scorches its way upwards and spills from his eyes.

 _It's true. This is it._

He can't tell if the sound he makes is a laugh or a sob. He can tell there's relief in it. He can tell, because his whole body unwinds. For the first time in his life, there is no weight pressing on his shoulders, his lungs, his throat and teeth and eyes. He is free.

He cries. He touches the other. He smiles. He thinks the other smiles, too, but he's not sure. He can't see. He only sees his own fist, clenching the fabric over the other's heart, and it's solid, and it's real, and he clutches at it like nothing has ever felt real before.

He thinks, _it's happening. This is it._

He also thinks, _this time it's not a dream. This time, it's the real thing._

He had never thought himself capable of feeling so light.

And-

"I'm sorry," he says too, because he is. He is sorry for all the things he didn't say when he should, and all that he didn't do when he could.

But it is okay now. It will be okay.

Because this time, this is it.

He can't tell when it happens. He can only tell that the lightness fades.

The numbness seeps out from his limbs, leaves them plain and heavy. His t-shirt is sticking on his sweaty chest. He blinks, and his stomach sinks into the mattress.

He used to dream of being angry. Of being afraid. Of shouting when he met _him_ , of spitting defiance, of paying back pain with pain.

Now it's just this.

Again.

And again.

And again.

One might think that, after three years, the dreams would have stopped. Ryou thinks that, after three years, they _should_ have stopped.

He wonders if he's descending into madness. He wonders if plunging into it will hurt less.

.


	22. Mistakes

.

He often thinks that this is the price he has to pay.

For all the little things he did. All the little nothings that proved to be everything; all the times he thought he was winning when he was actually losing. All the mistakes he made.

And they were so many.

Oh, they were so many.

He doesn't know where to begin. There is so much to remember—and, at the same time, so little.

It is ironic, he knows. All of it is.

He is paying by not forgetting. By missing; by slowly turning into everything that he hated. He is restoring the balance by living out the perfect irony.

He looks at his palms and sees lines. Sees the trace of veins. Sees scars. He clenches his fists and sees broken nails, broken skin, and nothing else. His hands have never felt this empty. He is alone. His skin is his, his mind is his. His hands are empty.

Isn't this what he has been wishing for?

Yes. Yes, it is.

Then pay the price, Ryou Bakura.

For all the times you were stubborn. For all the times you were a coward. Αll the times you were lenient, and all the times you weren't. For all the times you were a short-sighted, idealistic, self-deluded fool; for all the times you were the exact opposite.

He is empty, and he's paying the price with the only thing he has.

He counts his mistakes by the beats of his heart. And they don't stop. They don't stop.

He wishes they'd stop.

But he's wished for many things in the past, and he's learned not to wish for anything. He's wished for many things; just more mistakes to add to the list.

He thinks it's fair, in a way. Everybody deserves their purgatory.

So burn, Ryou Bakura.

Keep counting your regrets by the beats of your heart. Keep adding one with every beat. Someday, the beats may outnumber your regrets. If you are lucky.

So he is burning.

He inhales smoke, just the way he hated, and hates himself for the comfort it brings. One more regret to add to the list.

Beat, beat. He's counting. He's burning.

He wishes that, someday, the beats of his heart will outnumber his regrets. Then he reminds himself not to wish for anything.

.


End file.
